


Sophomore Slump

by parkguardian



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Mild Language, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkguardian/pseuds/parkguardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete can’t remember last night and, quite frankly, nothing really happened the way he wanted it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sophomore Slump

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know, a lot of fics have that title. im original as heck. enjoy reading tho! i would love feedback or criticism!

He wakes up with his face pressed into the slightly soggy mattress, the sheets twisting up around his legs and he's sure he smells like smoke and a melted stick of deodorant. His mouth is cottony dry, and there's a chemical haziness in his head that makes it difficult to remember the rest of the night previous. He doesn't want to open his eyes. They're stuck closed, slimy or maybe they're runny from laying at such an odd angle on his side. He runs his tongue over his teeth, taking a heaving breath and feeling it fan back up in his face against the pillow cover.

Pete pulls his arm out from underneath him. It was tucked under his chest, and it comes out as pins and needles. He flops over onto his left, rubbing at his eyes. Another yawn racks through him, and he dazedly watches the glow in the dark dinosaur stickers he's tacked up over the paint of his walls. They've long stopped from radiating a minute olive at this point. The strings of light cutting in from the blinds are enough to slice pain into his skull.

He closes his eyes again, groaning and turning onto his back. He stretches his arms up over his head, hands pressing onto the shabby headboard. He can feel hints of dips in the wood, slash marks where he'd taken out his frustration with his pocket knife, a gifted remainder from the holidays. Next, he arches his back up, spine popping with satisfaction. He tries to ignore the gritty texture of the bed sheets when he nestles back onto them.

Pete kicks out his legs, slowly regaining feeling in them as well. He's only wearing one sock, because the other always manages to crawl down his heel and get lost in the tangles of the blankets he throws off in the middle of his restless nights. He's suddenly made aware that someone is in the spot beside him when he brushes his leg against theirs.

His eyes fly open. He's sure that it's Patrick's mussed, blonde hair on his pillow, that he's down to his boxers. Pete doesn't want to ask him anything, to break the silence of the afternoon that is becoming a dull reminder of the fact he's hungry. That, and he's got awful morning breath.

_Nothing happened._

Those are the first two words to fly around his head when he feels himself begin to panic. That creeping tightness over his rib cage is incessant when Pete thinks he forced himself onto Patrick while under the influence. Well. Influences, really, but that isn't the point and he doesn't want to make it a point because he knows it's an issue and he doesn't want to dwell.

What's important is the fact the insanely cute boy in his bed is starting to wake up and he can barely remember what got him there in the first place.

Pete starts with what he does remember, as if he'd be able to pull together a makeshift timeline from the pieces. He remembers attempting to dance in his socks on a collection of hardwood floors, the sucking warmth in his lungs as he took his third or ninth drag off his pipe, chattering endlessly.

Alright, it's not great to go off of, but the most he can hope for is that Patrick doesn't remember either. Then, they could skip the awkward stage of filling each other in and agreeing not to recall it ever again, because their mind would have already blocked it out for them. It would be easy to forget something you don't remember happening.

But if Patrick remembers--let's just say that he did, because he's got some bullshit luck when it comes to remembering the uncomfortable stuff--and Pete doesn't, it's going to be hard to avoid the bump in conversation. Pete doesn't want to ask about it. Pete does want to know how drunk, high Pete managed to somehow be more suave.  
If something had happened, he wants to be able to remember exactly how it felt to have Patrick sprawled over him, licking lazily at his neck, pawing for friction, tugging at his short, dark hair.

He makes a low noise. He covers it with a cough and sits up, wrenching his legs out from the confines of the blanket. He feels like he's resurfaced from a multitude of salt waves. His throat burns as he staggers past the clouded mirror. Pete steps over their backpacks in the middle of the floor, half open, and the door squeaks when he closes it.

The creaking whine of the door turns to a searing disruption, and Patrick feels sapped of energy. He comes awake with a sleepy sigh, and he feels unsteady despite laying on the soft solid mattress. His hair is matted and roughly tousled. He sifts his fingers through his messy locks, can feel a slime of sweat on his neck from nearly overheating under the blankets. Patrick gropes for his phone, or the button up shirt he'd undone without hurry, and instead pulls out one of Pete's socks from the mass of covers in the left corner of the bed.

He's not scared of what happened. Patrick knows that he would indefinitely drink less than on par with Pete. He'd never actually been able to convince himself to refuse when Pete handed him a plastic tumbler filled with who knows what from his parents' liquor cabinet.

And, it was his first time smoking. He liked how Pete had hovered over him when he put the pipe to his lips, and how he hung onto him for the rest of the night until they crashed into the bed, but he made an inward resolution that he'd not try smoking again for a while. He didn't like the smoke. He was self conscious of the fact he nearly over ate at any meal without the munchies to aid. Patrick didn't like the fact he could still taste weed on the back of his tongue.

Maybe he was missing out on something, he'd thought to himself.

He couldn't get over the feeling of pinching hunger while laughing at the absence of jokes, laughing at the space between the two of them as they leaned out over the balcony and felt like they were spinning and not the earth below.

He hears the squeak of a faucet, the splashing patter of the shower turning on. He stares into blank space, blinking harshly and clicking his teeth to his tongue.

Patrick was able to retain enough of what they did, and the most daring Pete had gotten was trying to perform a back flip off the balcony and into one of the piles of trash bags to be left out in the alley. Pete insisted they make homemade nachos and watch old Star Trek reruns. The most daring Patrick had gotten was reaching over and intertwining his fingers with Pete's.

Dread poured up into his lungs when he realized his homeroom teacher had passed out drug form tests the week before. He wondered how long this shit would last in his system, and he worried if Pete's name would get picked.

He hears a clunk through the wall, where Pete is on the other side, toweling off and combing the swath of wet hair that's clinging to his forehead. Pete sprays himself down with Axe, checks his teeth in the mirror, and opts against brushing them. He wants to try and eat first, though he knows Patrick won't be up for food.

Pete checks his torso in the mirror, does a semi-circle around and checks his back. He doesn't see any cumulative injuries, and he doesn't see a pleasing square of skin tattooed down yet, though he's made up his mind on getting some when he's able. He finishes drying off, slings the towel over the bar holding up the shower curtain.

Decency might be nice after the question of last night, he figures, and puts on his boxers. He looks at his lonely sock, a black smudge on the tile floors, and puts it back on as well.

"Morning, sunshine," Pete says, nudging the door open with his socked foot and grabbing a crumpled pair of jeans off from the pile of laundry under the mirror. He slides up into them, buttoning them with shaking hands.

Patrick utters an unintelligible reply, limply chucking the sock into his direction. Pete bends over and picks it up, leaning up against the turn in the wall to put it on. He strides back over to Patrick and sits on the very edge of the bed.

"Want breakfast?"

He shakes his head, but his stomach growls. Pete grins at him, then scoops Patrick's button up from halfway beneath the bed. Pete tosses it into the middle of Patrick's pale chest.

He scrambles to catch it, then shakes it out, as if it's riddled with scorpions. He slips it on over his shoulders and takes his time to redo the buttons. Even still, he manages to fuck up along the way and he skips one or two.

He realizes that Pete's still watching him as he does this, though Patrick's eyes are trained to the fabric and the pearly white buttons. He's turning red with embarrassment of his inability to complete such a simple task. Pete lays down in the inch of space between Patrick's crossed legs and the pillows. He can feel Pete's breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against his knee.

"How d'you feel?"

"Not good," Patrick says quietly. He finishes buttoning his shirt. There's a strange sense of accomplishment left behind, as though he's just climbed Everest. He slumps down until he's laying next to Pete on the squeaking mattress.

The energy between the two of them lulls, drags behind for a split second and Pete swings forward so that he's sitting back upright. He bounces his knee and looks over his shoulder to where Patrick's relaxed on Pete's bed. Patrick's legs are somehow whiter than the strip of his stomach between his shirt and his boxers. He's staring at the stippled ceiling as though he's thousands of worlds away. Pete can tell his thoughts are reeling about projects nearly due.

"I wanted to go out today," Pete says, brightening excitedly.

"Are you sure?" Patrick gives him a look, because he doesn't feel too sure, and his head is still throbbing dully.

"C'mon, I wanna do something fun before my parents get home tonight," he assures him.

He over exaggerates an eye roll and Pete knows it, because he caves in immediately with a sheepish grin. Pete's back up to his feet, bustling around the room and digging through the scattered piles of clothes for a pair of Patrick's pants. Patrick is only watching the ceiling fan stir in the dusty air at lazy pace, but the weight of his pants thrown over his stomach lets him know Pete's found something.

Patrick doesn't move.

There's a squeak of the door hinges, and a few minutes later Pete returns with a glass of water and a few pain pills in the palm of his hand. Patrick coaxes the pills down his throat, washing the chalky taste out with the water. He accidentally drains half the glass. Patrick hands it back to Pete, who mirrors his actions with a bit more style of practice.  
Pete throws on a Nirvana shirt, because it's got dark colours and cool lettering and everyone's heard of _Smells Like Teen Spirit_. He watches Patrick inch into his jeans, biting at his lip as he draws in his stomach to do the button. He stuffs a hand into his front pocket to pull out a twenty. Holding it loose reinforces the existence of the money. Patrick stops to look at himself in the mirror, messing with his hair again, fixing it.

He grabs his backpack on the way out, slinging it over one shoulder. They find their shoes at the tiled square in front of the door. They bike down to one of the corner stores in almost complete silence. Pete's used to shouting as they roll along the slope of a large hill, and Patrick's humming some tune to himself, always.

*

The corner store is greasy and the paint is flecking off the bricks, and in the back is a wall that's been graffiti'd over again and again. There are beer bottles all around the air conditioning unit, lined up as if they're all a trophy of the under aged taste testers who hadn't been caught. They roll their bikes up behind the store and prop them up on the graffiti wall.

Pete considers taking Patrick's hand and holding it while he leads him into the store. They make it to the glossy front doors and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

They stand around in the aisles for a bit, aimlessly wandering. It takes a year and a half for Patrick to finally decide the flavour of a long necked, glass bottle of soda that he wants. Pete tries to get him to buy something to eat, but Patrick shoves him into one of the shelves stocked with chips. He lets Pete buy a box of donuts anyway.

The man behind the counter is gummy and has yellowed, chunky teeth. He keeps popping bubbles when he hands them change back. Patrick looks at the faded pen scrawl on the frayed edge of the old dollar. He folds the dollars into a wad and shoves it back down into his pocket.

Patrick steps off the curb, holding the box limply in his hand. He stuffs it down into his backpack and zips it up, placing the soda carefully beside it. He readjusts the straps on his shoulders. They make it to the back wall where their bikes are wedged up by the tall wood fence and the beer bottles.

"Hey," Pete hears himself say. "Do you remember last night?"

He's dreading the answer. It takes a few seconds, and Patrick looks over to Pete with his hands on the handlebars.

"Yeah?"

He sounds unconcerned enough for Pete to know he didn't fuck up majorly. Pete nods, the leaves crunching noisily under his heel as he flips the kickstand up. Patrick gives him a little quirked brow, a small smile, the slight shake of his head as though he's dismissing Pete's behaviour for just being Pete. He's thankful he doesn't ask why.

*

They bike out to one of the older parks. It's a small plastic playground with childishly bright colours and there's an empty, cracked basketball field to the left of a building filled with public restrooms. The sinks are all stuffed with paper towels and each stall is disgusting beyond use. They leave their bikes up against the thick trunks of trees on the edge of the playground, making their way to the green field over the slight hill.

The field is riddled with slumps in the earth, the contour of the ground wavy with grass. Pete plops himself down in a dip of the dirt, patting the spot next to him eagerly. Patrick takes the backpack off his shoulder, handing it to Pete and carefully finding a spot adjacent to him. He brings his knees up to his chest, watching the mist thread through trees and over train tracks.

"You're eating one of these, I swear they're made by the devil," Pete says, his mouth full. He nudges Patrick with the side of his arm, his hand delicately holding one of the boxed goods. The box is balanced on his knees, his legs out in front of him and his shoes are tattered down to the soles.

Patrick finally gives in, tongue swiping the edge of his mouth as he reaches over. He lifts one of the glazed donuts to his lips and takes a large chunk out of the side. His stomach gurgles up at him, and he's starving, inhaling the rest of the doughnut in a few bites before going to grab another.

"Holy shit." Patrick's voice comes out relieved, a pleased moan around the food in his mouth. He lays back on the grass, savouring this one more than he had the first. Pete laughs, licking off frosting from the edge of his thumb and insisting Patrick have at least one more, because come on, he hasn't had anything all day. Everyone's first trip deserves to be followed with baked goods.

But then, Patrick's off about something, rambling to Pete about the major differences between the structure of David Bowie's lyrics in comparison to Ozzie's, and then it's the direction in the making of the Star Wars movies--a topic Pete likes to dub as 'the way George Lucas fucked it up.' It's hard to get Patrick really talking about something unless it's one-on-one. Or, it's an extremely embarrassing self insert to a conversation about Neurosis on stage. With him, there is no in between.

Pete occupies himself by watching Patrick's chest move in the rhythm of his breath, watches his hands move in urgency about constructing a point as he talks. There's a string of blonde hair falling into his eyes, but he hasn't seemed to notice or care enough to swipe it into place.

His fingers find the lid of the box, and he flips it shut, shoving it back down into the backpack and laying down alongside Patrick. He stretches himself out, one arm to hold up his head and the other limply resting over his stomach. He's pretending like he doesn't notice Patrick's eyes wander down to the square of skin revealed at his hip. He also pretends like the dip in Patrick's speech isn't because he's distracted, but he's running out of things to say. This is hard to do on the topic of George Lucas' travesty.

Pete urges him to continue talking by mentioning Jar Jar Binks. Usually--and by usually, he means consistently always--this spurs Patrick onto a rage about the character himself.

Instead, Patrick swallows dryly, bringing his eyes up to meet Pete's. It takes him a second, but he resumes speaking and turns his head back to the clouds.

*

There's a pop when he opens up his soda, chugging a pull off the top and feeling the burn of carbonation bubble and fizz down his tongue. His arm is hooked around the chain of the swing, his legs kicking him up off the ground as he revels in the feeling of free fall that digs under his ribs for a moment as he gathers momentum. He's hit the peak on the swing that causes the rest of the swing set to thump when he hurtles back down.

He eventually slows back down, feeling nauseous and worried that his soda will splash up out of the top and end up all over him. He plants his feet into the mulch, coming to a complete stop and bringing the bottle back to his lips.

"I wanna do something," Pete says.

Patrick swallows, then sets the bottle back onto his knee. "We are doing something?"

"Okay, fine, let's do something else."

"What'd you have in mind?"

When fronted with the question, he really doesn't want to state what's been going on through his head. Pete hops off the swing, darting off to where the basketball field has grown abandoned, grass springing up between the cracks in the asphalt. Patrick stands up, drinking more from his soda as he makes his way after him. He's nearly done with the bottle when Pete doubles back around and takes it from his hands.

"Hey--"

Pete gulps down the last blue dregs in the bottom of the glass. Patrick notices Pete's stare is stuck to something behind his shoulder, but as he turns around to look, Pete grasps the back of his shirt and yanks him out of the way. He doesn't move as Pete throws the bottle into the pole of the basketball goal.

There's a smash as the bottle breaks around the metal, sending out shards into the grass and around the pavement. Pete lets out a victorious yell, breaking into a grin and clapping Patrick on the back.

"That counts as a point, right?"

"I don't think so," Patrick says.

Pete slings his arms around Patrick's neck and kisses him on the cheek. Patrick's mouth quirks to the side, eyebrows furrowing, adjusted and somehow still not used to Pete's over affectionate tendencies. He was glad Pete turned away, if only so that his red face wouldn't be pointed out.

*

The glass at the basketball court turns to gold in the sunset, and they climb the sides of trees and finish off the box of donuts together in the leaves. They know it's not enough to tide them over, but they've only been awake a few hours despite the oncoming night. Patrick's ignoring the topic of Thanksgiving, despite it being the reason they got a few days off, and Pete's still sorting out what he forgot.

He's turning it over in his head, like it's an unsolved Rubik's cube. There's half of him that's convinced he didn't do anything wrong, and that even if he did, Patrick didn't let on that he remembered it either. The other half is begging for something to have happened, and that's the half that doesn't want him to leave the night behind.

Pete props his feet up against the sprawling limbs of the tree, balancing himself as he pokes at crumbs in the bottom of the cardboard packaging. Patrick leans leisurely opposite of him, their legs nearly touching. Patrick's singing, letting tunes carry and hang in the humid air as the sky turns a murky blue-orange and stars blink in from behind the cascade of clouds.

Patrick's sleeves go to his fingers when they're rolled down, and he taps a rhythm onto his leg as he sings. His voice sounds rounder and warmer than any mumbling reel of a vinyl on its circular course, and Pete swears he could be singing any fucking thing and it'd sound like verbal mint tea.

*

Pete makes them stop at the Jack in the Box on the way up to his quiet, empty house. He buys the two-in-one deal for the tacos with enough sour cream packed into one furl of a crunchy corn tortilla to make your heart fumble. Patrick's standing at the door, watching their bikes through the glass, waiting for Pete to hurry and finish up. He hands the greasy girl at the register his money, filling two paper cups with ice and more caffeine. He stuffs straws into each lid, picks up the bag, complete with logos and stains on the corners of the paper, and hands the food to Patrick.

"I don't feel like eating," Patrick scowls.

"You can't just have donuts today."

"I shouldn't have had those either."

Pete pokes his tummy and tells him he's fine.

*

The drive way is empty and bleach white. The moon fades in over the trees, so they chain their bikes to the tree at the side of the house. Pete opens the front door and slings his shoes off the second they're inside. Patrick takes out the fast food from his back pack and sets it onto the table. They sit right next to each other and pick at their complimentary fries, tasting bubbles on their tongues.

Pete kicks his legs under the table.

When he doesn't think about what he's forgotten, he's fine.

Patrick takes his time to eat the taco, careful when handling it, afraid for any of the lettuce overflowing from the top to fall onto the floor. There's a stray guitar pick out on the table, half under the salt shaker. Patrick can see on the plastic where Pete's drawn a blue smiley face in sharpie.

Pete eats in a hurry, discreetly eating more fries after he's done. He eats over half of the carton, but Patrick doesn't mind. Patrick pretends he doesn't notice Pete's sneaking hand grabbing three fries at a time instead of one.

They cram all of their trash into the bag again, the crumbs of their food, too. Pete makes sure he throws it away into the garbage can under the sink. He finds them gum on the kitchen counter, and they spend a few minutes softening it between their teeth and blowing bubbles while Patrick mulls over the time he lost to work on his algebra assignment.

Pete tells him to stop caring about it, he doesn't want to do it anyway.

Patrick cringes, shrugs, and says, "I wish it was that easy, you know?"

*

They're back out on the balcony when the clock turns to 7:49. They're both heart breakingly sober, and Patrick's talking about his father, who manages to piss Pete off enough in the span of a few minutes. He wonders how Patrick puts up with it every day, wonders that maybe he's lucky his parents are never home.

They spit their gum out over the railing. Pete puts his hand on Patrick's shoulder, attempting comfort. He can still feel grease on his fingertips, feels guilty that he's using Patrick's anger as an excuse to touch him.

Pete reminds him to breathe, and Patrick visibly relaxes. When they go back into Pete's room, Patrick blares music he can sing along to and they talk mindlessly instead. He admits he doesn't like getting worked up.

Who does?

Pete doesn't realize he voices his question aloud until Patrick murmurs in agreement. He lets the painted walls hold his weight, nestling into Pete's bed once more. They've come full circle and Pete's first thoughts upon waking still haven't gone away.

He falls over, limp, letting his own weight crush him. He feels something lumpy sticking out from his pillow and poking at the side of his head. The plastic stars dotted across the walls slowly began to glow as all other light escaped the room. Pete felt as though he was falling back into his body, disoriented as his eyes picked out shapes in the complexities of the dark.

There was the squealing whine of metal springs under the mattress as Patrick adjusted over the twisted sheets, coming to lay beside Pete. The blankets made a soft sound as they were pushed over the side of the bed and into a pile on the carpet below. The floor seemed miles away.

The dusty glow of yellows and white-pinks and greens from the store bought galaxy enhanced the details of the blonde beside him. Pete lay still, could feel his arm up under his body growing numb. As the night enveloped the pair, the blotted lights became more distinct. Pete could see Patrick's eyes, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips.

"So, nothing happened last night," Pete remarked. His voice lilted with a waver, and he could feel the tension of silence bubbling back up between them. He was watching Patrick's mouth when he spoke.

"Did you _want_ something to?"

He sounds infinitely small, years away, and unsure of himself.

Pete holds back a choked curse, refrains from saying anything at all, really. He sputters instead, hoping he could take back his words in a fluster. He can feel fire consuming him, burning hot embarrassment flushing over his face, and Patrick--

Patrick's smiling at him. Lopsided, barely a turn at each corner, but it's a smile. As if he's satisfied more with Pete's stammering than any explanation he could provide.

He wrenches his eyes closed, listening to the bed churn under shifting limbs, and he expects Patrick to be moving away rather than closer. There's breath fanning over his neck, steady and warm and even. His legs are being pushed apart, letting Patrick fit his own between so they can intertwine and tangle like the sheets they're on.

He thinks that even if he were high and drunk off his ass, it would take more than jumping over the balcony railing to forget what it's like for Patrick's hand to find it's way onto his hip. Patrick's still careful when his fingers graze his spine, hiking up his worn down Nirvana shirt that he wishes he wasn't wearing. He opens his eyes to find Patrick's mouth, because he's waited long fucking enough for his own supposedly, allegedly straight best friend to give something reciprocal.

Patrick feels like velvet and tastes like sharp mint gum, but he clams up when Pete takes charge of the kiss. It only lasts a blinking second. It's too short, but Patrick can't think well enough of how to proceed beyond that point. He flicks his short fingernails down the curve of Pete's back, eliciting a slight noise from him.

Pete curls in closer to Patrick, kissing the side of his face, kissing down his neck and anything but his lips. The room smells like smoke, and Pete worries that he does, too. Pete's hands tug gently at Patrick's hair, and he draws out a near gasp, cutting into the space between them. Patrick's hands turn to claw at Pete's waist, holding onto him like he's drowning.

They only kiss, really kiss, twice. The second is far more relaxed than the one before, Patrick leaning into it and gently pulling on Pete's lip for a second. Then, Patrick inches down until his face is pushing into Pete's torso, and they wrap around one another.

Patrick falls asleep easily. Pete's eyes bore holes into the ceiling, and he hears a car pull up into the driveway, tires crunching as they roll to a stop. He feels paper thin and almost afraid someone will walk in, so he listens to Patrick's breathing and closes his eyes.


End file.
